


Don't Tell (Don't Ask)

by Devilc



Category: Generation Kill, Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: AU, Cross-Generation Relationship, Crossover, Cunnilingus, F/M, Future Fic, Military, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2010-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no greater rush than rolling the bones with death, and as the lone survivors of a mission gone pear-shaped, Brad Colbert and Savannah Weaver deal with the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Tell (Don't Ask)

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Don't Ask (Don't Tell)](http://devilc.dreamwidth.org/222277.html), written for [Porn Battle 10](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/30726.html). Prompt is -- _Generation Kill/Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, Brad Colbert/Savannah Weaver, future, Iceman, watch, darkness, desert_. Originally posted [here](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/30726.html?view=4422662#cmt4422662), and slightly tweaked since.

  
When John Connor tells him this skinny little slip of a girl is assigned to his recon team, Captain Brad Colbert doesn't question his orders. He just busts her chops about the fact she's got a skirt on.

"It's a kilt, Sir. It's Scottish," she replies in a firm, quiet voice.

Scottish his ass -- it looks like something straight out of a Utilikilt catalog, and they were based in Seattle, Washington.

(Yeah, Brad knows Utilikilts. Fruity Rudy had one.)

~~oo(0)oo~~

Two years into the future and Savannah Weaver is a tiny woman who still wears her unique brand of BDU and her red-gold hair frequently escapes her braid, and she's also his best Sergeant, though they don't stand much on formality in his squad. Everybody calls him Sir, and he calls everybody by their surname and so long as you snap to when given the word, it's all good.

(They might not stand on formality and grooming standards, but they _do_ stand on discipline.)

Brad watches her, sidelong, out of slit eyes whenever he can get away with it -- which isn't often, because very little escapes Weaver's notice.

(Her skin is fair, and her features delicate, with a dusting of freckles over her nose, and though her eyes are blue-grey and not green, the piercing look in them is the same.)

Brad's aware he treats Weaver differently then the rest of the grunts in his squad. He can't help it.

(Doesn't want to help it.)

~~oo(0)oo~~

A tiny part of his brain mourns the loss of the rest of the team, and later, he'll find a quiet corner and deal with it. He knows this.

But right now, the rest of his body and mind burn with that livewire rush that comes from rolling the bones with Death and winning even though Death had a pair of loaded dice, and Brad's so fucking hard as they crawl into a tiny cave half way up the side of a mountain in the middle of the Mojave desert and lay there, _shaking_ in the near darkness, that it's everything in him to not give in and let nature take over.

The part of him that's still the Iceman tells him to "Stay frosty."

The world is different now.

But that part of him is still the same. He _can't._ He _won't_ make the first move on a subordinate. (Especially not one young enough to be his daughter.) And not even the way her cool competence and leadership skills (she's going to make a hell of an officer) push his buttons and haunt his dreams, coupled with crocodile-brain biology's demands that he stop and make a baby _NOW NOW NOW_ can overcome that.

But she can. The last flicker of sunlight turns several of Weaver's escaped locks to copper-wire fire as she rolls on top of him, kissing her demands. Before his shocked and awed brain can send anything beyond a sputter to his tongue, she says, "Shut up." Adding only after a very long pause, "Sir."

The Iceman? Oh, he's long gone. Not a chance in hell of seeing him again tonight.

The words come out of her mouth in neat little matter-of-fact units, "We have a night vision scope, two pistols, and only one working rifle between the two of us. If the HKs find us, we're done for. Our only hope is covering 20 klicks of pretty damn open terrain tomorrow during the middle of the day when they can't lock on to our body heat and the heat shimmer off the dry lake bed will fuck with their optics. If I die, I am not going to die horny. Is that clear, Sir?"

The darkness is complete, and yet, he doesn't need any light to see the look in her eye. That, plus the calm command in Weaver's voice has him smiling the smile that only she gets from him. "Crystal," he replies.

She kisses him again, hungry, using a little teeth -- the good way though -- and sits up, straddling his legs, and, as she makes her move, Brad makes his.

(Weaver's not the first bossy bottom -- so to speak -- he's dealt with.)

Brad's never believed in showing a lady a good time. He considers it his duty to show her _fanfuckingtastic_ time.

So, Brad bucks and twists, rolling them, and just before he shinnies down into position, he deadpans back at her, "Weaver, I'm not willing to take the risk of the last thing I ever ate being a 20 year old MRE." He slides his hands up her kilt, hunting for the little snap-flap he knows is there and he laughs on the inside because he knows situations like _this_ have nothing to do with why she wears a kilt, but right now, it's making things a thousand times easier than dungarees would, and says, "I am never making fun of you again for wearing a skirt."

"It's a kilt, Sir," she corrects him for the Nth time. "It's Scottish."

The kilt might be Scottish but what's underneath is 100% red-blooded American woman. His favorite flavor. Nothing else comes close.

(Except for Ivy League CO. It's tied with that.)

Weaver's so hot and wet and ready-needy that he doesn't even get to pull any of his fancier tricks out -- like slipping a finger up inside and tickling the G-spot while he tongues her clit like mad -- before she's got a hand clenching his hair as her thighs clamp down and she arches and bucks like crazy and he's desperate for air, but he's got a face full of girltaste and girlsmell and frankly, it wouldn't be an entirely bad way to die.

Finally, she relaxes and he sucks in a huge gasp of air and a split second later, Weaver croaks, "Sorry, Sir."

Brad's still licking his chops when he jokes back, "I've survived triple eights and HKs, I'm not about to get smothered in pussy."

He climbs most of the way back up before rolling them again so she can be on top, and in a flash, Weaver's got his zipper down and he's in her warm little hand and from there into a place that's perfectly slick-hot and tight around him.

Tight doesn't begin to describe it. It's like peeling a carrot.

Every time she moves.

Weaver wants to go slow, but Brad can't do that right now. It's like he's a randy teen again, he bucks and bucks and bucks and she kicks it into high gear, and before he knows it Brad's eyes roll back in his head and he's gasping her name. "Oh, _Weaver_."

Just the once.

Because it's all he needs to say.

She collapses on top of him in the darkness, shuddering and twitching with her own aftershocks and he feels her voice as a series of puffs against his neck as much as he hears it. "It's Savannah, Sir."

Even through the layers of clothes and body armor, he can feel her heart hammering. He reaches up and tenderly tucks a few stray silky locks behind her ear. "And right now, it's Brad, not Sir."

He's still hard inside of her. Seems like his dick's forgotten about middle age.

Savannah's voice is sultry and imperious as she whispers "I'll race you, Brad," in his ear and then she _squeezes_ around him as she rocks back up to straddling him, wringing an involuntary under breath _"oh fuuuuck"_ out of him before she continues, "Loser takes the first watch."

He doesn't understand how they're going to determine who's the winner or the loser, because the way he feels right now? She can peel his carrot all night long. He starts to laugh and bucks up hard and laughs even more when he hears her quick intake of breath.

**Author's Note:**

> Has a companion piece in [Don't Ask (Don't Tell)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/106562).


End file.
